by Laura Del
“Why don’t you have a coat?” I asked, walking over to my computer desk so I could write Mike a note.
He shrugged. “I’m not cold. Actually, I’m never cold.”
I put the note on the coffee table, looking up at him. “Is that a werewolf thing? Because Mike is never cold either.”
“Yeah, it is. We run a little hot so it’s harder to get cold.”
“Huh,” I said, putting on my coat and placing my handbag over my shoulder. “Interesting.”
“You ready?”
I held out my arms. “Don’t I look ready?”
He looked me up and down and then nodded. “You sure do. In fact, you look smokin’ hot.”
I rolled my eyes. “Gee, just what I always wanted. To be compared to a temperature.” His inability to act as if he didn’t want to get in my pants was exasperating. But what did I expect from Stag, ladies’ man extraordinaire?
“So,” he said, ignoring my sarcasm, “which car are we takin’?”
I didn’t even have to think about it before I said, “Mine.”
So I decided to keep the car for now, sue me. I would worry about what it meant later, but right now, I really wanted to ride in it. “And don’t even begin to think that you’re driving.”
He held up his hands as I looked up. “Touchy. I wouldn’t dream of getting between you and your lover.”
“Ha ha. You just think you’re so hilarious, don’t you?”
He smiled that cocky smile of his. “You’re the only woman that doesn’t find me funny. Why is that?”
“I’m not that easily amused,” I said, and he tripped down the two steps outside the apartment building. He fell flat on his butt, and I laughed so hard I cried.
“Are—are you all right?” I finally asked, holding my hand down to him.
He smiled at me, getting up without any help. “Not easily amused, huh?”
I stopped laughing. “You did that on purpose?”
“Yup, sure did.”
I shook my head as we walked over to the car, and I unlocked the doors. “Get in.”
Once we were in the ‘Stang, I turned her over, staring out the windshield. I didn’t know where we were going. “Where to?” I asked him, and he laughed.
“Take a left out of the parkin’ lot, and I’ll tell you where to go from there.”
I did as he said, and after a couple minutes, I realized we were going the wrong way. “This isn’t the way to Big Bears.”
“We’re not goin’ there. It’s too noisy. I’m takin’ you somewhere a little less crowded.”
“Then where are we going?”
I glanced at him, and he smiled. “It’s a surprise.” He told me, and I decided to go along with it, for now.
We sat in silence, and every now and again, he would tell me to take a left or a right. After about ten minutes we were in New Orleans, right outside of a large, glass building. It was gray and—for lack of a better word—huge.
He had me park in the lot, and then told me to get out. When I did, I made sure our doors were locked before Stag said, “Close your eyes.”
“Seriously?” I asked, cocking a brow.
“Please,” he insisted, looking like a little boy as he pouted. “For me, girly?”
I sighed. These men just loved having me close my eyes for them. It wasn’t cute. “Fine,” I huffed, closing my eyes as he took my arm, leading the way.
“No peeking.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He led me up onto the sidewalk (I knew that much), and then we made our way up a couple of stairs. When we walked into the apartment building, I heard all these people say “good morning” to him. One thing that I liked about living in Louisiana was that everyone was always so friendly. Manners had not gone out of style.
I knew we had gotten into an elevator because I heard the doors close, and when we started to move, the pressure was unsettling. Then we stopped and I heard someone else get on.
“Good mornin’, Mr. Sagmore,” a beautiful soprano voice twanged.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Shaw.” I imagined him smiling at her.
“Who’s your friend?” Mrs. Shaw asked, and I could hear the double meaning in the question. Are you sleeping with her? Was the undertone.
“This is Ms. Patricia Wyatt,” he said, and I smiled in her direction. “She works for me.”
“She must be very bright to work for you.” Translation: She must be a very good lay.
“Oh, she is,” he agreed. Only to what I don’t think he knew.
“Is there something wrong with her?” she asked. Translation: Why are her eyes closed?
“She’s blind, I’m afraid,” he said solemnly. I knew that he was messing with her and I almost laughed, until he added, “And mute. It’s truly sad. You see, when she was younger her stepfather beat her with a wire hanger,”—Mommy Dearest much?—“and she lost her eyesight. But she was born mute.”
“Oh.” She seemed sad. She was believing his bullshit, and I didn’t know if she was stupid or just didn’t care. “The poor thing.” She petted my arm. “Can she hear us?”
“No,” he said sadly. “She lost her hearing when a bomb went off in her building.” What the hell was he smoking?
He couldn’t just say that he was surprising me. Oh, no. He had to create this incredibly unbelievable story about a “Daddy Dearest” and a terroristic act. No one on this Earth would believe such a blatant lie, except for Mrs. Dimwit-Shaw. “Oh, I am so sorry to hear that.” She did sound truly sorry. “But since she can’t hear or see us…” her voice trailed off, and I heard a wet noise.
I peeked ever so slightly, so she wouldn’t see me looking. Mrs. Shaw had her arms around his neck, while she kissed him fiercely. I couldn’t see what she looked like because Stag was blocking my view, but I could see that she had a huge diamond ring on her left hand with a white gold wedding band right beneath it.
He gently pushed her off him, and I closed my eyes again. “We can’t do this anymore,” he said. “I told you that I don’t date married women.”
“You weren’t complainin’ yesterday when I…” she must have done something to him, because he jerked away, hitting me in the shoulder.
“You’re right, I wasn’t complaining,” he agreed with her. “But that was before your husband caught us.”
“He was so drunk,” she said, probably waving off his concerns, “he doesn’t remember a thing.”
“I don’t care,” Stag’s voice was harsh. “I said no more.”
“Fine,” she huffed.
Finally, the elevator dinged and I heard the doors slide open.
That was the longest elevator ride of my life.
“I hope you’re happy with this one; she looks like she won’t complain much or ever for that matter. She probably won’t know how to satisfy you, either.”
Stag led me off the elevator, and I couldn’t help but turn around and hold the doors open with my hands. I opened my eyes and smiled. Seeing her shocked middle-aged face was worth it, and it made my dark smile widen. “Look who’s the pot calling the kettle black. At least I won’t nag him like a mother. And let me tell you, he’ll get more satisfaction out of me just by talking than he has ever gotten from you by having sex.” I stepped back, letting go of the doors. “Have a nice day, Mrs. Shaw.” I waved, and the elevator doors closed before she could regain her senses.
I turned around, looking up at Stag. His mouth was hanging open and I closed my eyes again, holding out my hand to him.
“Lead the way,” I said, and he did.
chapter
SIX
Stag led me a little further before I heard a key in a lock and a door open. Then he gently pulled me inside where he had taken me.
When he let go of my hand, I felt disoriented for a minute so I took a deep breath, smel
ling the distinct smell of pancakes and bacon. My stomach growled as I heard the door shut behind me. Stag placed his hands on my shoulders, making me jump, but I quickly regained my composure, relaxing as much as I could.
“You ready?” he asked, and I nodded. “Okay. Open your eyes.”
When I did, my eyes widened.
Stag’s place was enormous compared to my shabby little apartment. It had an open kitchen and a hallway to my right, while a large living room and bedroom were to my left. The whole apartment was open and light. The walls were painted a beautiful shade of ivory, and the furnishings were 1960s retro. It wasn’t what I expected a typical bachelor pad to look like. For one, it was too clean, and it actually looked like Stag had some taste. One wall, which separated the large bedroom from the living room, was covered in vinyl records. And right next to it, by the glass doors that led to the balcony, was a bookshelf. It contained no books; just DVDs, CDs, and a sound system to die for.
As I turned my head, I saw a sixty-inch flat-screen TV mounted on the wall next to the apartment door with a DVD player and surround sound speakers. Across from the TV were two white egg chairs with red throw pillows, a black leather couch, and a glass coffee table. The glass coffee table caught my eye a moment longer because there were girly magazines fanned out on top of it.
I shook my head, turning my gaze toward the island in the kitchen. That’s when I saw the two champagne glasses just sitting on top of the marble counter. They were filled almost to the brim with orange juice, and I glared over my shoulder at Stag.
He smiled a sort of I-just-got-caught-smile. “Mimosa?” he asked, and I felt like punching him.
“No, thank you,” I hissed as I turned to walk out of the apartment.
Stag sighed. “Wait! I know it was wrong to bring you here under false pretenses, but I have to talk to you.”
I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. “I’m hungry, so you can talk to me while I eat. After which, you’re on your own and don’t think for one second that I’m bringing your car to you. You can damn well walk back to my apartment and get it yourself.” With that, I turned around, walked through the apartment, and out onto the balcony where he had set up a round wrought iron table for breakfast. I sat down with a huff, folding my arms in the process.
I waited all of two seconds before Stag came to join me, carrying a tray full of pancakes and bacon. He served me, and then himself, while I just sat there stone-faced. Then he sat down and I began to eat before he could say a word. I poured syrup over everything and dug in.
“I guess I’m gonna have to talk fast,” he said, and I glared up at him, not slowing my pace. “I had to get you alone.” I rolled my eyes. I just didn’t care. “You see,” he continued, “I like you a lot and since you’re free…um…I wanted to know how you’d feel about…” he paused, but I still kept eating. “How would you feel about goin’ out with me now?”
The fork stopped half way to my mouth, and I swallowed so hard, it hurt. “What?” I asked, as I placed the fork down on my plate.
“Would you want to go out with me?” he repeated, a little less confident this time.
“No,” I answered, placing my napkin on my lap. “I don’t want to go out with you.”
“Wow,” he sounded hurt. “That’s the first time a woman has ever really rejected me.” He leaned back in his seat, shaking his head. He looked as though he was trying to figure something out.
I shrugged. “Well, get used to it, because it’s going to keep on happening if you don’t stop being such a jerk about everything. Women don’t respect jerks, and they definitely do not respect being lied to.”
“So you’re sayin’ that if I had told you the truth from the beginning that you would’ve said yes?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying I would have respected your honesty, and probably would have said…” I paused, thinking about it for a second, “maybe.”
“Maybe?” he asked, confused. “Wow, I really rub you the wrong way, don’t I?”
“No, it’s not that.” I lied, and his eyes widened. “Okay, it is that,” I admitted. “But you’re my boss. I don’t have to like you in order to work for you.”
He smiled that cocky smile of his. “I guess you’re right, girly. You don’t have to like me. But I kinda wish you did.” He stared at me, his dark, brooding, mysterious brown eyes piercing me to the very core.
I blinked, trying to focus. I was attracted to him; there was no denying that. “What else did you want to talk to me about?” I asked, staring down at my plate.
“Your article,” he said, and my jaw clenched. “It’s not quite right.”
I narrowed my eyes. This whole thing was getting on my last good nerve. “What more do you want? I did everything you asked me to do. Everything! And now you want more? I give up!” I took the napkin from my lap, throwing it on the table as I stood to leave. I got as far as the sliding glass door before he blocked my way. Holy shit, he’s fast.
I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath. “Move. Please.”
“Not until you hear me out,” he said, and I opened my eyes in time to see him fold his arms.
I placed my hands on my hips, glaring up at him. “I’m listening.”
“I want you to go back to your original version,” he said the sentence as if it were all one long word.
“Why?” I asked skeptically. After all, he was the one that made me write and re-write that damn thing. And now he wanted me to go back to the original? Something was seriously wrong with this picture.
“It’s so much better than the shit I made you do,” he finally admitted. “You’re good, and I mean really good. You take the reader places. I only pretended to hate it because I wanted an excuse to fire you.” I knew that. “But you did everything I asked you to, and then yesterday happened and I just couldn’t bear the thought of losin’ you.” I cocked an eyebrow at him. “As a writer, I mean.”
“Well, that’s it. You can go now.” He stepped aside, gesturing for me to go through the door.
“Thank you,” I said, but when I started to walk past him, he caught my elbow.
“Don’t go,” he pleaded softly.
I pursed my lips, a little habit of mine when I’m agitated. “Let go of me, Elliot.”
“Please,” he almost begged, “I don’t want you to leave.”
I pulled my arm from his grasp, but he just caught it with his other hand. If didn’t know any better, I would have sworn that he was a vampire.
“You told me that I could leave.” I reminded him.
He smirked. “Yeah, but I never said that I would let ya.”
“You—you…” I smacked his hand away. “Wolf!”
I walked as fast as I could through the apartment; I got as far as the kitchen before he grabbed me by the waist, lifting me up off the floor. “Let me go,” I yelled, pushing on his arms. “I said, let go!” He had me so far off the ground that my feet were dangling. I kicked with all my might, but he still would not let go. Finally, I stopped struggling and I hung there like a towel over a rack.
After a second or two of him just holding me, Stag put me down. I turned around on my heels, stared into his cocky smile, and slapped it right off his face. He blinked at me a couple of times, his mouth open in shock.
We stood there staring at one another, and in an instant he was all over me. He grabbed my face in his hands, kissing me so hard that I could feel my mouth begin to bruise with the force of it. Then he stuck his tongue in my mouth, and I couldn’t help but kiss him back just as fiercely.
His hands began to roam from my face to my body, and the little voice in my head screamed at me to stop this madness, so I did. I pushed on his shoulders and he moved away.
“What’s wrong?” he breathed against my lips.
I shook my head. “I can’t do this. I can’t betray Mike.”
>
He leaned against the kitchen counter, closing his eyes. “Shit. I knew it. You’re in love with him.”
“I don’t know if I’m in love with him or not,” I admitted. “But I do know that I have very strong feelings for him.”
He sighed, looking at me. “Do you know if he feels the same way?”
I nodded. “Yes, I do. He tells me every day how much he loves me.”
“Fuck,” he whispered. Then he took a deep breath, turning so we were face to face. “Okay. I can live with that, as long as we can still be friends.”
I grimaced. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I can’t be around you if you can’t keep your hands off me. So I think we should just keep this a professional relationship. That is, if you still want me to write for the magazine.”
“Of course I want you,” he said, and it sounded as if there was more than one meaning behind it. “You’re a great writer, and I would be an idiot to let you go.”
I smiled. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, trying to smile his cocky smile, but it never reached his eyes. The look on his face made me feel terrible, and all I wanted to do was go home.
I got my wish not even five minutes later.
I drove us back to my apartment, and as I pulled up to the curb, I saw Mike standing outside in his flannel pajama bottoms and white t-shirt. His arms were folded and the look on his face…well…he was not happy.
“We’re in trouble, aren’t we?” Stag asked, as I parked the car in front of the building.
“Uh-huh,” I replied, fear creeping over me. I had only seen Mike this angry once, and it was not a pretty picture. I’m talking yellow eyes, pointed teeth, and sharp claws not pretty.
We got out of the car, and I placed what I hoped was a gentle smile on my face. “Hi. How did you sleep?”
